


Seventh Son, Slumbered

by Anna_Hopkins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Not Epilogue Compliant, Prompt Fill, Work In Progress, might finish this later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 15:06:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15122021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Anna_Hopkins
Summary: Molly Prewett bore six sons, but dear Molly was not done: not 'til she a seventh bore, but when it rains it surely pours.The seventh child, born asleep; he did not wake, and did not weep. Sweet Ginevra, daughter eight: she was his twin, but such is fate.For many years, through day and night, the nameless son sleeps wreathed in white. Then, when Molly had forgotten: that is the moment the child's eyes open.(A prompt I liked too much not to write.)





	Seventh Son, Slumbered

**Author's Note:**

> I went off on a tangent from the original prompt, which had Ginny in a larger role, but this version of it struck me.

Molly Prewett became a Weasley on the nineteenth of August, 1968. The ceremony was held outdoors, on the hillside behind her family home, and took a modest amount of time for weddings of the day, but Molly hardly remembered it after the fact – the celebration was far overshadowed by the conversation that preceded it.

For the previous night, her Aunt Lidia had taken Molly aside in the parlor and imparted unto her a family legend, passed down by women born into the Prewett line, that now she was getting married she would need to know.

Every pureblood line carries a unique power, inherited only rarely – Metamorphmagic, Parseltongue, creature blood – and the Prewetts were no different once, producing an unusual number of talented cursebreakers and inventors. But talent was not the Prewett power, though it made a convenient cover, Lidia explained after Molly took the oath of silence. In truth, no one knew _what_ it was: every instance of the Prewett bloodline’s true power had been last recorded centuries ago.

_The Muggles took up the superstition around seventh-sons and seventh-daughters long before the Statute of Secrecy_ , said Molly’s aunt, voice airy with mysticism. _That legend began with_ us _, Molly. Us Prewetts, back when we mingled with the non-magical races as priests and druids – our bloodline power manifests only in the seventh son, or seventh daughter._

Lidia had smiled over her wine glass. _You and I both know Fabian and Gideon won’t marry. That leaves only you in this generation._ So she explained the ‘rules’ to Molly, the ones written of in the family grimoire that Molly had never been permitted to open: Seven children, born to the same parents, all sons or all daughters. _All of us who know have tried and failed,_ Lidia sighed, _but promise me you’ll continue it. Something tells me you’ll succeed._

Molly promised. The next year, she had her first sons – Bill and Charlie, twins. They were followed by Percy, then Fred and George, then Ron. _Six sons_ , closer than anyone had gotten in twelve generations. At the same time, the war took Molly’s family from her, one by one and two by two; Arthur assumed her enthusiasm for a large family was an attempt to compensate, but there was something older than war and magic growing in the air.

When Molly swelled with child for a seventh time, that sense of foreboding, like the air ahead of a thunderstorm, kept her awake at nights. When she realized she was carrying _twins_ , for a third time, the concern tripled. She kept the fact of twins a secret: the last attempt that had gotten this close to fulfilling the legend had ended in miscarriages or still births.

She bore the last set of twins on a quiet day, while Arthur brought the rest of the children to the lake to swim, in a warded room, alone. And lo and behold, the seventh child was a son, born ahead of Ginny – yet, as Molly had feared, he did not make a sound, nor wake when Ennervated like her other children had.

Molly watched the unnamed boy – unnamed, she decided, until he woke up (if ever) – for an entire day, and most of the night, but he remained asleep, breathing steadily, no matter what she said or did.

There was nothing to be done but wait. What if this was somehow part of the Prewett Power? In public, she announced Ginny as the seventh child, _a wonderful daughter_ in Arthur’s words, and made use of the Fidelius Charm that Albus had rediscovered in order to hide the existence of her seventh son. Honestly, she’d expected the boy to waste away in a day or so, but weeks went by, and he remained in that curious stasis, bundled in Molly’s grandmother’s white blanket.

There was too much to attend to now that the war was over; Molly visited the hidden room where her son resided every day at first, but found herself increasingly busy in the months that followed. She set a charm over him, so that if he ever did wake, she would know – and the same if he ever died – and so, time went on.

Bill and Charlie graduated Hogwarts with exceptional marks and went on to live exciting new lives. Percy – _Head Boy_ Percy – graduated and made his way up in the Ministry. Fred and George dropped out in their seventh year, but tempered Molly’s anger by becoming wildly successful shortly after opening their joke shop. And Ron took up a place at Harry Potter’s side in the war that was to come.

The war _did_ come, as did Bill’s wedding, and Ron’s mysterious adventure, and all of it kept Molly so busy that she had nearly forgotten about the seventh son she’d never gotten to raise, asleep in his linens. The final battle took Fred from them, and Molly was awash in such grief that she barely slept – until three days later, when that old charm startled her awake in the middle of the night: _the seventh son had finally opened his eyes_.

 

The secret room had grown dusty in the intervening years, but her son, _her son_ , had never changed. He was no different from his state at birth: the same size, the same color. Just an infant, trapped in time.

Molly realized, holding him, that she’d never be able to explain this to Arthur or her now-grown children, especially not now that they were all mourning Fred’s loss. Perhaps, if this infant had woken up a year earlier, she could have passed the sudden appearance as a war orphan or a refugee. But no. It was too late to bring another child into the family.

Ever so briefly, she considered Confunding Fleur and Bill into thinking they had two sons. It was a hasty plan and a foolish one. But the idea of passing the child off to the next generation _did_ fit, in a cosmic sense.

“Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place,” she called into the Floo, holding the still-unnamed child in her arms.


End file.
